Sophia watched as ambitious mamas began gravitating toward him like moths to flame. Hugo intercepted them with easy charm, deflecting inquiries and redirecting conversations while Heatherwell’s gaze swept the ballroom.
Searching.
His eyes found hers across the crowded room. Something flickered in their blue depths. He went still for a moment, his lips parting, and Sophia felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
Then he looked away and began making his way through the crowd.
“He is coming in this direction.” Alice’s voice held a note of warning. “The Duke.”
“I know.” Sophia kept her expression neutral. “We have business to discuss.”
“Business.” Alice arched an eyebrow but said nothing more.
Sophia excused herself and drifted toward a quiet corner near the terrace doors. Moments later, the duke appeared at her side, facing the opposite direction, his voice pitched low.
“Lady Sophia.”
“Your Grace.”
A pause. She could feel his presence behind her, the heat of him, the subtle scent of sandalwood that she had come to associate with their encounters.
He cleared his throat. “You look less dreadful than usual this evening.”
Sophia blinked. She turned her head slightly, catching his profile in her peripheral vision. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your gown.” His jaw tightened. “The color. It suits you. I mean to say, you are…” Another pause, longer this time. “…not unpleasant to look at.”
She stared at him. He stared resolutely at the wall.
“Thank you?” The word emerged as more of a question than a statement.
He nodded once, as if satisfied that the compliment had been successfully delivered.
Sophia pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Or screaming. She had not yet decided which response was more appropriate.
“Lady Helena Forsythe is near the punch bowl.” She returned her attention to the ballroom. “Daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Excellent lineage, accomplished musician, known for her patience with children. Miss Catherine Drayton stands beside her in the yellow gown. Heiress to a shipping fortune. Less prestigious family, but considerable wealth and a reputation for charitable works.”
“Very well.” His voice betrayed nothing.
“Dance with them. Make conversation. Try not to discuss the architectural merits of ancient monuments.”
“You will never let that go, will you?”
“Never.” She allowed herself a small smile. “I should return to my friends before we attract attention.”
She walked away without waiting for his response, weaving through the crowd until she reached Alice and Thomas.
The orchestra struck up the first notes of a waltz. Couples began taking their positions on the dance floor, a swirl of color and movement. Alice turned to Sophia with an expectant look.
“We can keep you company,” she offered. “Thomas doesn’t mind sitting out the first set.”
“Nonsense.” Sophia waved them away. “Go. Dance. I will be perfectly content watching.”
Thomas guided Alice onto the floor, and they joined the other couples, their movements graceful and practiced. Sophia watched them spin past, saw the way Thomas looked at his wife, the way Alice laughed at something he whispered in her ear.
No one had asked Sophia to dance.
She stood at the edge of the ballroom, champagne in hand, and tried not to feel the sting of it. She was five and twenty. Unmarried. The daughter of an invalid whose debts were whispered about in drawing rooms across London. She was not the sort of woman gentlemen sought for their dance cards.
